


Nix the Cucumber Slices

by callmelyss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Bathtub Sex, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Holy Tropes Batman, Light Side AU, M/M, Massage, Pining, Resistance Ben, Resistance Hux, Sharing a Bed, Spa Treatments, Spies, serial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: “I just—I work better alone,” Hux says.“That’s not how we do things here,” Leia reminds him. “And that’s not how we planned this mission. We’ll simply need to find you a new partner.”“But there’s no time—““I can go,” Ben interrupts.—Ben Solo accompanies Armitage Hux, First Order defector and uptight perfectionist, on a covert mission for the Resistance, the two posing as a newlywed couple at a luxury spa. It's an unusual assignment, but Ben's a good spy and the Force is on his side. He can handle this.There's only one problem: he's in love.





	Nix the Cucumber Slices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glass_Oceans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Oceans/gifts).



> Originally written as a serial on Tumblr as a gift for the lovely glass-oceans, who is such a wonderful contributor to fandom.

Ben Solo has faced down his share of inquisitors. He knows, from experience, that he’s not easy to crack and, as often as not, he gets more information from his captors than they do him. His people rely on him, and it’s a point of pride to keep them safe, regardless of whatever pain and torment he must endure.

This time, however, he may be out of his depth. After all, his interrogator is an expert and a hardened veteran. A bead of perspiration tickles his hairline. His pulse accelerates. He shifts in his chair.

“So,” Leia says, pinning him with that _especially_ disappointed stare, the one that makes grown men quiver and battle droids weep. “Tell me again: what happened?”

“Technically,” Ben tries. Hoping for leniency. “The mission was a success. We performed the extraction. There were no fatalities. Poe and Black One are a little worse for the wear, but their prognostics are good.”

All true.

“You blew up a space station, Ben.” Her voice—very dry. Not amused. Not amused at all. It’s going to be that kind of meeting, then. Of the _please don’t take me from the field, I’ll do better_ variety.

“I _singed_ a space station. It very slightly caught fire. But it was empty, so. It’s fine? I don’t think anyone noticed. Or many people.”

“Ben. We’ve talked about this. The recklessness.” She allows some of the weariness to show in her expression. This past year of leading the Resistance has taken a toll on her, more gray showing in her hair, deeper shadows around her eyes.

 _All the more reason to let me help_ , Ben reasons. But he’s yet to convince her of that.

“It’s not recklessness, not really,” he tries to argue. True, that last maneuver with the _Sparrow_ had been somewhat showy, but it got the job done. “The situation was fluid. I had to improvise.”

“Improvisation is a last resort for the well-prepared,” an all-too-familiar voice intones from behind him.

Ben suppresses a groan.

Armitage Hux—First Order defector, double agent, Resistance intelligence, insufferable prick, and all he wants in the known and unknown galaxy—is leaning in the doorway, arms folded, a satchel slung over his shoulder and a smug smirk on his face.

“Hux,” Ben greets him. “You’re looking…different.” But he often does. He’s kept his natural coloring for once; the last time Ben saw him he’d been a brunette. The clothes are new. He’s wearing a blue tunic over a white collared shirt, fitted trousers, high boots. Rather better quality than his usual drabs. And it’s unfair what that pretty picture does to Ben’s head, but that’s expected, at least, where Hux is concerned, much as he might wish otherwise.

“Ben,” he replies curtly. “Senator, you asked to see me?”

“Armitage.” Leia gives Ben a look that says _I’m not finished with you yet_. “Yes, please have a seat. I see you’ve made out well with Mar’nok.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees. “Although I still think the use of your personal tailor was unnecessary.”

 _Unnecessary, maybe, but kriffing brilliant_ , Ben thinks.

Leia offers him a wry smile, probably overhearing this, then returns her attention to Hux. “All for the mission, Armitage. You have everything you need?”

“I do. My transport to Astor V leaves at 2100.” He takes out a datapad and makes a few, quick gestures. “My rendezvous with your contact is confirmed.”

“Very good. But what’s this I hear about Javier being grounded?”

Hux squirms in his seat, suddenly uneasy. “Ah, yes. Nasty case of the Gamorrean flu, I’m afraid.”

“And you haven’t secured a replacement.” It’s darkly satisfying to see someone else on the receiving end of that stare.

He clears his throat. “No, ma’am.”

“Armitage.” And that tone he knows so well. _Don’t make me repeat myself_.

“I just—I work better alone,” Hux says.

“That’s not how we do things here,” Leia reminds him. “And that’s not how we planned this mission. We’ll simply need to find you a new partner.”

“But there’s no time—“

“I can go,” Ben interrupts. They both turn to stare at him. He’s not sure if he should feel offended or vindicated that they clearly forgot he was there.

“Huh,” is all his mother says. Considering.

Hux scoffs. “That’s preposterous. You don’t know the mission or the mark or even where we’re going.”

“Astor V, you said, right?” Ben grins. “Resort planet. Sky spas and whatnot. High price tags. That means galactic corp or mobsters. Who are we after?”

Leia only raises both eyebrows at Hux, who sighs. He taps a few keys on his datapad and hands it wordlessly to Ben. “Dorien Jorel of Blood Star syndicate. We have intelligence that he’ll be at the Floating House of Tranquility. He has information on the First Order’s dealings with his competitors.”

“And we’re going to…steal it?” Ben asks hopefully. Deflates at their identical despairing faces. “We’re not actually _dealing_ with this slimy little leech, are we? _Mom_ —”

“You can be an ideological purist when we actually know what we’re up against, Ben,” Leia reminds him. “If you do this, you’ll follow Armitage’s plan to the letter, understand?”

“Fine,” he grumbles. He turns to Hux and offers his most winning smile. “Sounds like we’re working together again.”

Several emotions flicker over his features: disbelief, irritation, exasperation, resignation. He jabs a finger at the datapad. “You have five hours before our departure. If you don’t have this memorized by then, I’m tying you up and leaving you in the cargo hold.” To Leia: “Senator, excuse me.”

When they’re alone again, his mother’s giving him a look that’s half amusement, half pity. “You think you can handle this?”

Meaning, Ben knows, given how he feels about Hux, of which she’s well aware. “I’m a professional, aren’t I?”

She doesn’t dignify this with a response. Instead: “Did you notice who your contact is?”

Ben scrolls down the dossier and groans. “Oh, not—”

“May the Force be with you, dear.”

 

* * *

 

“Should we go over the layout one more time?” Hux is asking as they exit the transport in step. Is asking _again_. With all the characteristic determination of a rancor with…anything.

It’s the fifteenth hour of grilling Ben has endured at the hands of his partner. By the fourth, he’d started fantasizing about shutting Hux up in any way possible—with a natural preference for the more mutually pleasurable options, of course, although freezing him in carbonite also occurred to him more than once. By the tenth, the airlock had begun to look worryingly appealing.

“It’s seared into the backs of my eyelids,” Ben says, of the layout. “ _I know the plan_ , Hux. Besides, we’re here, if you hadn’t noticed, and out of time. So: do I pass muster? Sir?”

Of course, he actually scrutinizes him, green-eyed gaze flicking over his face and the rest of him.

“I suppose,” he concedes. Grudging. He switches his attention to the landing pad, private, as all of them are at a place like the Floating House of Tranquility. Can’t have the wealthy guests accidentally mixing with the rabble. “Now, where’s this contact of ours? Senator Organa mentioned it was someone you know?”

He doesn’t have time to answer before a familiar voice booms, “ _Benny_!” In that way that makes him cringe. Lando Calrissian has changed almost not at all since Ben’s childhood. Somewhat grayer at the temples, a little stouter in the chest, but his face is the same, and a brilliant purple and gold cape flares out behind him as he approaches. “They didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Last minute addition.“ Ben allows himself to be drawn in, unresisting, for a back-slapping hug. “I should have known you’d have your hand in something like this.” Gestures at the floating complex around them, the soft orange light and voluminous clouds.

“It is on brand, isn’t it?” He flashes him a wide smile. “And I’m guessing you’re Armitage,” he says to Hux. “Heard a lot about you.” Offers him his hand. As they shake, Lando shoots Ben a look, which he doesn’t need the Force to read: _So this is the guy, huh?_

“We’re grateful for your assistance, Mr. Calrissian,” Hux replies. Formal as ever.

“Lando,” he corrects. “And Leia asks, I obey. But that’s all of us, right?” He ushers the two of them away from the landing pad, explaining as they walk. “Staff will take care of your luggage. I’ve got wristbands and schedules. You should have plenty of chances to get close to Jorel.”

He hands over two plastiflex bands and two small datapads. “These will get you everywhere you need to go. You’ve got the ultra-ultra-deluxe package.”

They pause to fasten the bands around their wrists; the plastiflex glows a pale green, obviously high tech.

Lando lingers with them at the door. “There’s a refreshment hour happening now. Should be a good chance to get your bearings. Fair warning: a lotta mobsters in there.”

“We’re ready,” Hux says. Glancing at Ben.

It sends a warm thrill through him, that expression of confidence.

“You need anything, you get in touch with my people. I’m going to make myself scarce, but they’ll take good care of you.”

“Thanks, Lando,” Ben says. “I’ll tell Mom you said hello.”

“Give her my best.” He claps him on the shoulder. “And Ben?”

“Yeah?”

Lando winks. “Enjoy the honeymoon suite.”

 

* * *

 

“That may be the biggest bed I’ve ever seen,” Hux says. Mouth agape. He’s standing between the bedroom and the parlor of their suite, the total square footage of which is easily larger than the _Millennium Falcon_ , or, for that matter, most other ships Ben has flown.

“It’s impressive,” Ben agrees. He’s reclining on one side of it, sinking into the mattress, propped up against what might be a dozen pillows, and those just the ones within reach. 

The bed _is_  big, to his profound relief. More than big enough that they can share and he might not even _see_ Hux, let alone accidentally touch him during the night.

For Hux’s part, he’s still staring at the furnishings. “My whole squadron could have slept in that bed.”

“You should see the tub.”

He ducks into the equally cavernous bathroom. “Kriffing hells, you could drown a bantha in there.” His voice echoes off the tile.

“Why would you drown a bantha?” Ben calls back.

“Why any of this? This place is absurd,” Hux says, striding back out. His demeanor not disapproving so much as overwhelmed. Then, this is a far cry from the worlds he knows best, the military and, lately, wherever Leia sends him, remote moons, the more desperate reaches of the Outer Rim, the galaxy’s seedy underbelly. Rarely places like this.

“So you’re not considering turning to a life of crime to maintain the standard of living to which you’re now accustomed?”

He scoffs. “I don’t think I would ever get used to this.” He walks out to the balcony, the doors ornate, burnished, scrolled with calligraphy. “The view is nice,” he admits.

Ben rolls over to have a better look. They’re high above the surface of Astor V, and a froth of violet clouds hangs beyond their rooms. Maybe anyone would glow like that—ethereal, otherworldly—with such a stunning backdrop, illuminated by the gentle light, almost incandescent. But Hux, even more so.

He swallows. “Yeah. Gorgeous view.”

 

* * *

 

They leave the suite sometime later, wandering out to the lounge as though completely disinterested in the proceedings. An attendant materializes and hands them both flutes of something sparkling and chartreuse before disappearing just as abruptly.

It’s another large room with high curved ceilings. Three of the walls shift slowly between different shades of pastels; the far end is floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out into the darkening sky, the stars emerging. An elaborate fountain, arranged in the shape of a gemwood tree, gurgles at the center. Couches and loungers are dispersed around the space, all of it the sort of aggressive minimalism that caterwauls its priceless value.

The assortment of sentients in the space do the same. Ben hasn’t seen this much understated draping and power accessorizing since his last visit to Canto Bight. He’s about to make a dry comment to that effect when he realizes Hux has tensed next to him, posture going military-rigid. Discomfort rolling off him.

_Right. Not used to this._

He slides closer, letting his hand drift to the small of his back. _It's just part of our cover_ , he insists to his suddenly arrhythmic heartbeat. To Hux, he murmurs: “Hey, don’t forget we’re the useless sons of politicians and industrialists. We’ve never worked a day in our lives. You know: assholes.”

He doesn’t know if this earns him a smile, but he does feel Hux relax. He leans, just slightly, into Ben’s touch and whispers back, “There are agents from at least seven different syndicates here. Eela Arden works for the Hutts. Gelven Manaa is with Black Sun. Both of them deal with the First Order, per our sources.”

“A more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” Ben intones. Ignoring the way Hux’s breath on his cheek is making him shiver. “This is going to be more complicated than we planned, huh?”

He takes a sip of brightly colored fizz. Grimaces. “We did our best with the guest list, but most of them use a third party.”

“Can’t have it known when your criminal overlord is getting his semi-regular mud wrap, I guess.”

“No, indeed. Do you see Jorel?”

Ben tips his head to glance over Hux’s shoulder. On the outside, he knows they’re presenting an intimate scene, leaning into each other, his hand still on Hux’s back. Effective. Also, slow torture. “I don’t—“

“Well, hello,” a voice rumbles nearby, and they both startle.

Dorien Jorel is looming over them. A feat, considering, but he has at least an inch on Ben and therefore a few on Hux. He’s young and fit and blue-eyed, blond hair messily styled over his brow, wearing black, un-ornamented except for the massive blood-red stone on his right hand, predictably set at the center of a silver star. The expression on his face can only be called predatory. “I’m Dorien.”

“Ben,” he replies. Recovering. Gestures to Hux. “This is—Armie.”

“A pleasure,” he says. He takes Hux’s hand in his own, stroking it. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, Armie. I believe I would remember.”

“It’s our first time,” Hux explains. Flushing.

Definitely an act. He never blushes like that.

Probably an act.

“Your first?” 

“Yes, well,” Ben says and wraps an arm around Hux's waist, pulling him in, maybe closer than strictly necessary. “We’re celebrating.”

He can feel the sharp glance he gets from Hux in response—a half-caught _what are you doing?_ —but glares at Jorel instead, who’s all amusement. “Oh?”

“Our honeymoon,” Ben tells him, seizing the first idea that comes to mind.

 _Oh shit_ immediately follows it.

“Is it? My congratulations,” the taller man demurs. Finally relinquishing Hux’s hand.

“Thank you,” Hux says. He’s not quite frowning. “And you?”

“Oh, merely enjoying the scenery.” Jorel smiles. Easy. “Will you be taking the waters while you’re here? The baths are not to be missed. Of course, they’re nude.”

Tempting to throw this ridiculous drink in his leering face. Or just punch it.

“Ah, yes,” Hux says. “I believe we’re here for the full experience. Aren’t we, _darling_?” The heel of his boot catches Ben’s insole, deliberate, warning.

He stifles a yelp and winces. “You know it, sweetheart. Only the best for you.”

“How lovely. Then I will look forward to seeing you. Both.”

“Likewise,” Ben agrees. Clenching his teeth. Staring down Jorel as he leaves.

“What in the hells,” Hux demands, once their mark is out of earshot, “was _that_?”

“Um. Improvising?”

 

* * *

 

In Ben’s many—perhaps countless—imaginings of what it would be like to wake up next to Armitage Hux, he never accounted for the possibility that he would find a certain pair of gray-green eyes glaring at him from across no less than seven pillows and roughly a square hectare of downy mattress when it happened.

_Still annoyed then._

He’d managed, more or less, to convince Hux that he had only been trying to protect their cover and Jorel’s, given that they were surrounded by more syndicate agents than they had anticipated and that they _are_ staying in the honeymoon suite. Was infinitely relieved to find that Hux didn’t suspect he was trying to protect _him_. His virtue. Something.

They’ll maintain that cover today; they dress in the soft, loose, deceptively plain clothing provided by the Floating House of Tranquility and enter the spa proper. Their wristbands chime softly as they pass through the various wings of the facility. Not just for access, Ben is sure, but also charging credits to a dummy account somewhere.

The whole place glows with soothing blue light; another water feature is gurgling, and there’s a scent in the air, something floral pumped through the vents. Next to him, Hux sneezes.

Per Jorel’s itinerary, which Lando’s people matched closely—but not _too_ closely—he’ll be in the massage wing this morning, so that’s where they go. A Twi’lek attendant in lilac robes invites them to peruse the menu of options, and a holo menu of no less than a hundred possibilities pops up in front of them.

“Umgullian blob massage therapy,” Hux reads aloud. “I’m guessing I don’t want to know.”

“Better than a Zelosian bud facial?” Ben offers.

He snorts a laugh. Maybe not _too_ annoyed then. “Some of these sound ill-advised. I don’t think I want a back rub from a Wookiee.”

“You would need a sturdy spine. Look: _not recommended for invertebrate species_.”

“I would imagine not.”

Ben glances at the attendant, wary. In an undertone, he says, “Better choose something, though, if we’re going to get inside.”

Hux quirks an eyebrow at him. “Couples massage?”

He swallows. “That would…make sense, I guess.”

“By droid seems safe enough,” he says.

They’re led down another corridor; the whole place is a maze, Ben thinks. Impossible to make a quick exit somewhere like this, although he makes note of their route, as well as the discreet panels that must be how the staff move from place to place. Good bet that the sentients who work here know everything that goes on.

Their masseuse, a pearlescent femme-identified droid by the designation of S4-L8, greets them at the door. “Welcome and congratulations on your nuptials,” she says, her voice as aggressively soothing as everything else here. (And Ben’s never been anywhere that was trying _this_ hard to make him relax. He’s starting to resent it.) “Who would like to go first?”

He nudges Hux forward. It’ll be easier for him to search for Jorel with the Force and sneak out while the droid is occupied. He’s already settled on a nearby settee and reached out with his mind when he hears, “Please disrobe to your comfort level.”

Oh. Right.

He chances a look at Hux; he’s already shrugging out of his shirt, showing the long lines of his back, his narrow waist, his chest lean but not undefined. A narrow stripe of red hair dips under his waistband. He makes no move to reach for his pants, fortunately, only settles on the massage table at the droid’s direction, and gives Ben a pointed glance. _Get to work_ , it says.

And yes. He lets his eyes drift shut. Reaches out in the Force. The rooms next to theirs are empty. There’s a Devaronian arms dealer down the hall getting worked on by a Rodian.

“Where do you experience the most tension?” S4-L8 asks.

“In my shoulders, I suppose,” Hux tells her.

Ben extends his awareness. _Oh,_ that’s _a Zelosian bud facial_ , he thinks and shudders.

He can almost feel Jorel at the edge of his senses, the oil-slick confidence of him, when there’s a long, not-at-all quiet groan behind him. But that sounded like—

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Hux says under his breath.

Ben opens one eye, just to check, and he’s fine, yes, S4-L8 working on his shoulders. She digs in with one digit, well-padded with silicon, and Hux—

Hux _moans_. “Oh, theretherethere. Right there,” he says. Voice ragged. “ _Please_.”

His mouth goes dry.

“You have a very bad knot,” the droid chastises. Disapproving in that way AI have, that unspoken sighed,  _Organics_. She turns her attention to Ben. “Here, I can show you how to do this if he gets it again.”

And there is no reason to let her, no one to maintain their cover for—a droid won’t notice or care—but he goes anyway, lets her take his hand and apply the ball of his thumb to the skin an inch off from one shoulder blade and he can feel the tension in the muscle there, the way the knot shifts even under that light touch. He presses down under S4-L8’s direction, and Hux makes a small sound in the back of his throat, like a whimper but also _relieved_ and _grateful_ and _Ben made him make that sound_.

His head swims as half of his blood rushes to his face and the other half to his—

“Ah, excuse me,” he coughs and backs away. “I, uh, I need to step out for a moment.”

He all but runs out into the hall, leaning back against the cool stone until his pulse slows. Inhales deeply. Sneezes.

Yes, he's definitely beginning to hate this place.

 

* * *

 

“Is everything okay?” Hux is asking.

“Yeah,” Ben says. “Only I’m not sure I’m doing this right. What’s the point of it again?”

They’re both dangling about thirty feet off the floor, suspended by long swaths of vine silk looped around them; the whole apparatus slowly rotates. The high-ceilinged room has a specialized low grav setting, not so much that they’re floating, but enough that he’s feeling a little lightheaded. He doesn’t like the constriction of the silk around his arms and legs either. It’s less than it would be otherwise in the diminished gravity, but enough that claustrophobia is starting to set in.

“I think it’s meant to help your circulation,” Hux says. He’s resting easily in his own hammock of pale blue fabric, long limbs splayed. Looking more relaxed than he has in years, maybe ever. “But that wasn’t what I was referring to; you’ve been…odd since yesterday afternoon. Are you all right?”

He coughs. Ignores the slow spin of the room as he dangles. True, he’s been keeping his distance, or as much as he can sharing a room and a bed and while on a mission. He’d practically fallen off the edge of the mattress last night, edging away from Hux. Is still thinking about that sound he made. The feeling of his skin under his hand.

“I’m fine,” Ben lies. “Sorry about that. And for missing Jorel.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hux says, easily. Are his eyes brighter or is it just the light? They’re gleaming, especially green. “I don’t think there are many in the Resistance who would have interrupted a Huttese deep-tissue massage, even for precious intel.” He pauses, considering. “Well, Dameron might.”

He chuckles, despite the blood rushing to his head. “Probably.”

“And it will be difficult to make contact with him this way,” Hux acknowledges. Gesturing with one hand at the small forest of shifting silk around them. “On the way out, perhaps.”

“We still have plenty of time,” Ben reassures him. 

Although Hux doesn’t sound especially concerned at the moment. He sighs softly, none of his usual irritation in it.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says after a pause. “I know I was hard on you when we arrived, and that was unfair of me. You’re doing well, especially for a last minute assignment. I don’t believe I would have managed half this easily with such little time to prepare. You’re good at that—improvising.”

Kriff. Hux looks so earnest right now, brows furrowed, a small smile sitting on his lips. Face kind.

“Uh. Thanks. For saying that.” Ben flushes and averts his eyes, afraid to give something away.

It’s a mistake. Vertigo tilts the room below him, and his head swims. Ridiculous—he’s a pilot. Barrel rolls don’t bother him; neither do any other complex maneuvers. But another awful spa treatment has his vision narrowing.

“I hate this,” he mutters.

“I know it’s not an ideal situation, but we’ll manage,” Hux says. Meaning Jorel and the exchange, maybe. Or the Floating House of Tranquility in general.

“No, _this_ ,” Ben corrects him. Swallowing the rising surge of panic. “Ah. Can we get down, maybe?”

“Oh!” Hux says. “I think so. Here.” He tugs on a tasseled rope hanging between them, and they begin to lower. As they do, he reaches over with his free hand to take one of Ben’s. Squeezes reassuringly.

 

* * *

 

He’s sure he imagines it—another phantom sensation—but that night, in bed, nearing asleep, he feels it again. Hux’s hand wrapped around his.

 

* * *

 

A week ago, if someone had told him that infiltrating a luxury spa would be his most daunting foray into enemy territory, Ben knows he would have asked them how much Starfire ‘skee they’d had recently and advised them to sleep it off in the bunks. And, in fairness, he doubts he’ll get much sympathy from his comrades when he returns.

If he survives, that is.

He surveys the room, another expansive space, all of it covered in tiles that send odd echoes from wall to wall. A shallow pool, more of a depression, occupies the majority of the floor. It’s filled with a thick, churning mud: dark brown, almost black, and speckled with bits of shine, which Ben suspects are an attempt to make it look more appealing. Bathers perch on the low steps descending into the muck; a few brave souls venture in, but most keep to the edge of the pool with just their legs submerged.

He’s sitting next to Hux doing just this, trying to ignore the cool, viscous pulse of the mud around his toes. If he listens, he can hear the murmur of the stuff’s consciousness—it’s alive and semi-sentient, a species of goo from somewhere deep in the Outer Rim. The attendant had pronounced the planet’s name as a congested burble.

“It loves dead skin cells,” she enthused. “It really draws the toxins out.”

The mud does seem docile and pleased in the Force. It may also be sensitive; it seems to pull vague feelings from whatever it touches, but he detects no distinct thoughts, only impressions.

Specific thoughts might have been useful, given the number of criminals here. That information could keep the Resistance in the know indefinitely.

“There’s another Hutt operative,” Hux murmurs next to him. Apparently thinking the same. “Pity we can’t set up shop here for a month; we’d clean up half the galaxy.”

Ben hides a smile. Typical of him to suggest that, to want that. “Lando would never forgive us,” he points out.

“I suppose not.”  He gazes out over the pool, lapsing into silence. They’re both wearing short linen robes, and Ben’s been trying not to admire the flash of leg he’s getting. Or the view of his chest revealed by the deep V of the collar.

Yes, better to focus on the mud. It ripples around his knees. Its awareness diffuses throughout its entire volume, although there’s some directional sense to it. Annoyance flares across from them where a couple of Ithorians are bickering out of all four mouths. There’s no shortage of maliciousness or furtiveness either; these feelings come to him in waves. 

Plenty of secrets here.

Then, he has a few of his own.

Ben keeps out of his partners’ thoughts as a rule, had that respect drilled into him by Luke early on when he showed an aptitude for mind-reading. He uses the Force to keep tabs on them during a mission and nothing more. It’s tempting, however, to know what the _mud_ has discerned from Hux. Is amused to see it’s picked up his determination, his curiosity, his stubbornness—but there’s something else. Something warmer. Contentment, maybe. Or affection.

“Hey—" 

“Armie!” a voice interrupts, and Dorien Jorel is crossing the room to approach them. Residue from the pool clings darkly to his long legs. “How lovely to see you again.” His teeth flash. “Hello, Ben.”

“Hello, Jorel,” he says. Flat as he can.

“How formal. Do call me Dorien.” He turns his attention to Hux. “Are you enjoying the—“ he burbles the name of the mud. It sounds less phlegmy when he says it.

“It’s certainly unique,” Hux acknowledges. Polite.

“The treatment suits you,” Jorel says. “This whole place does. You’re luminous, if I may say so. Your skin is glowing.”

“Er—thank you?” Pink flares along his high cheekbones.

Ben is _not_ thinking of drowning their mark in a pool of sentient muck.

Hux wouldn’t like that. Neither would his mother.

Still, the image appeals to him.

“Will I see you both in the lounge later? They’re serving seaweed aperitifs from Mon Calamari. It’s a wonderful digestive. You seem like you could use it, Ben.”

“We’ll be there.” He tries not to snarl.

“Yes,” Hux agrees. He nudges Ben gently in the side with his elbow, then curls their fingers together. _Careful_ , that gesture says. “We’ll look forward to it.”

“Splendid. Then I’ll see you there.”

Ben watches him go, feeling some of his tension dissipate. They’re close to accomplishing their goal, and then they can leave this place. It’s good. But he still feels, perhaps too acutely, the loss when Hux takes his hand away. 

Whatever he had sensed from him, too, has disappeared.

 

* * *

 

Once again, the spa’s lounge is a veritable who’s who of the worst the galaxy has to offer. Ben wishes, not for the first or even the tenth time this mission, that he had his lightsaber with him. But there’s a strict no-weapons policy in such places, and if someone discovered it at the check-in, well, they would have bigger problems than itchy face masks (he was allergic) and hot stone massages (they were _hot_ ). No, all they have is the monomolecular blade up Hux’s sleeve. And the Force itself.

He tries not to look like he’s on high alert as they move through the room. Given how close they are to accomplishing their goal, it seems likely now something will go wrong, that they’ll be recognized or accosted. Although, they _are_ doing their very best imitations of careless, privileged newlyweds, arms wrapped around each other as they navigate the room. Hux practically drapes himself across Ben’s lap when they settle on a low couch in a quiet corner.

“You know, this isn’t a bad ruse,” he murmurs in his ear. “No one is paying attention to us.”

Ben makes a show of laughing. If he’s flushed, he can always blame the crowd. “Every culture hates honeymooners; it's universal.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

He snags a pair of bright green shots from a nearby droid. “This must be the seaweed,” he says.

“Yes,” they say. “It’s wonderful for the gastrointestinal system in humanoids. It really—“

“—gets the toxins out,” Ben finishes wearily. Once the server’s moved on, he sighs and clinks his glass against Hux’s. “Cheers.”

And he doesn’t _personally_  know what rancid fermented algae tastes like, but he thinks it would be significantly less disgusting than this.

They both gag. “Oh, that’s foul,” Hux coughs, sitting up.

Ben pats him on the back a few times, trying to keep his own dose down. “When we’re through with this place, we’re going to a cantina and getting an ale,” he vows. “And burgers.”

“It’s a date,” Hux wheezes, leaning into him.

He continues rubbing his back after he's quieted: slow rotations, unthinking. Finds the place the masseuse droid, S4-L8, showed him days ago (although it feels longer), the tightness of the muscle apparent even through his shirt. “Hey, umm, you have that knot again.”

“I’m not surprised,” he says. “I’ve been sleeping poorly. The bed.”

Right. The bed. Ben isn’t finding it especially comfortable either, although that may be because he wakes up every time he starts to drift toward his partner. “Want me to—?” he asks, meaning Hux’s shoulder. “Ah. I mean. It’ll fit with our cover.”

“Oh,” he says. Face pink. Probably from the coughing. “I suppose, er. If you want. Thank you.”

He presses down with his thumb the way S4-L8 showed him, loosening the muscle gradually in a tight spiral. Hux groans quietly—thankfully—and goes a little boneless under this treatment, his head lolling and his hair, free from its usual precise style, falling over his eyes. “Stars, Ben, you are good at that.”

Which, of course, is precisely when Jorel appears, as if summoned. 

“There you are!” He drops onto the couch next to Hux, jostling him into Ben. “Have you been enjoying the seaweed? There are fourteen different kinds, you know.”

“It’s, ah, _potent_ ,” Hux says.

“Nine of them are aphrodisiacs.” He smirks. “But I suppose, since you’ve just been married, you’re not in need of any.”

Ben opens his mouth to growl a reply, but Hux, anticipating this, snatches an hors-d’oeuvre off a passing tray and shoves it in his face before he can speak. “Here, darling, try this.”

His eyes water as he tries to chew. “Thank you, dear.”

“So affectionate,” Jorel sneers. “It’s quite moving. I was hoping, however, that I might speak with you alone, Armie? In my rooms, perhaps?”

Hux arches an eyebrow. “Were you?”

“You see, I have an especially picturesque view of the planet’s surface.” He lays one hand on Hux’s knee. Squeezes. “Maybe you’d been interested in seeing it? Tonight?”

Ben wants to interrupt; he should interrupt. This isn’t the plan, for Jorel to separate them, to get Hux alone. By all rights, they could have made the exchange now in the busy lounge, but the man’s obviously playing games, toying with them, has some other motive, and Hux—

“I’d be delighted,” Hux says.

 

* * *

 

Days ago, the honeymoon suite had seemed almost comically large, everything about it outsized, extravagant, and cavernous. Much too big for two people. Ben hadn’t known then, of course, that he would spend the better part of an hour pacing it, feeling it shrink around him, unable to keep still while Hux—

He’s trying not to think about it. Trying not to think, too, about the argument that had preceded his departure, and it’s lucky that every room in the Floating House of karking Tranquility is soundproofed or they would have blown the whole operation then, given the shouting match.

 _Why are you trying to keep me from doing my job?_ Hux had snapped. _We need that data, Ben. It’s why we’re here._

_What if it’s a trap? What if he never intended to give us anything and wanted to get one of our agents alone?_

_If it’s trap, I’ll handle it. I know what I’m doing. I thought you believed that._

Unavoidable, maybe, that Hux would hear criticism that wasn’t there, the suggestion that he wasn’t _capable_. Ben hadn’t meant to trip that particular insecurity, the constant need to prove himself, especially being a defector, a significant part of why he’s such a workaholic—meticulous, determined, impossible at times. Also why he’s a good agent, a great one, almost universally respected. And why Ben’s in love with him. Or one reason.

 _That’s not what I meant_ , he’d insisted.

_Then what did you mean?_

Ben had almost responded, almost blurted, _Because I’m worried about what he’ll ask you to do. Because I think you might decide you have to._ _And I—I don’t want you to_.  But he couldn’t demand that of him, couldn’t plead, _Please don’t go. Please let’s find another way._ Much as he had wished he could.

Hux had given him a long look, expectant, then impatient. Walked out without speaking when he didn’t answer.

It’s been 57 minutes, per the chronometer.

He sighs and wanders out onto the balcony for the umpteenth time. Leans against the railing. Stares at the clouds, pastel and frothy, even during the evening. He doesn’t know what element in the atmosphere must make them light up like that, but it _is_ beautiful.

He could reach out for Hux in the Force, if only to check on him, nothing invasive about that, but he’s wary of what he will find if he does.

It had been like this, the first time Ben knew, when he was twenty-one and Poe had flirted with Hux, the two of them slinging banter over drinks at the cantina favored by younger members of the Resistance. It had made him sick, seeing that, and inexplicably angry with his friend.

That was four years ago.

He doesn’t hear the suite’s door _snick_  open and shut behind him, but he does feel Hux’s presence as he approaches. He’s leaning in the entryway to the balcony, face inscrutable, when Ben turns. Holds up a small, matte black drive, as though in answer to a question.

“Good work.”

“Thanks.”

Ben follows him back into the room, not speaking while Hux finds his datapad and plugs in the drive, tapping the screen intermittently. His expression stays focused but otherwise blank, everything about him closed off, noncommittal, as he works. Eventually, the device chimes softly; he replaces it on the table and nods once, satisfied. “There, it’s transmitted,” he says. “We did it.”

“You did,” Ben says.

He hums. Rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck, eyes closed. “It’ll be good to go home.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t know where to stand, continues to hover at the center of the room while Hux sits on the bed and reaches down to unlace his boots. As he does, he starts to speak, without looking up. “Jorel was mostly cooperative. He asked if I would have a glass of wine with him; I did. We made small talk.”

It doesn’t sound like he needs a response, so Ben simply nods, even though Hux isn’t looking at him.

He moves his shoes to the side, military-neat and precise as always. “I gave him the password our contracts chose for him. He replied in kind, then produced the drive.” He reaches to undo the collar of his shirt. The cuffs.

Ben holds his breath, waiting.

“He asked me what I was willing to give him for it. I said the credits would be transferred to his account at my direction. He suggested we make another arrangement. I introduced him to my monomolecular blade, and he reconsidered. That was that.” He unstraps said blade from his forearm and replaces it among his things, before approaching Ben. Face still neutral, even somewhat cold, as he steps directly into his personal space, chin lifted, staring him down, despite the minor height difference.

“Now maybe,” he suggests. “You’ll tell me why you were so dead-set against me completing the mission we were sent here to do.”

He can feel the blush creeping down his neck. “I—that is, I didn’t. It’s not that. You’re. And we—“ he stammers.

Hux nods, as though he managed to say something intelligible. “That’s what I thought,” he says, just before he kisses him.

There’s nothing careful or shy about it. In a way, the kiss is much like Hux himself: direct and no-nonsense. He cups the back of Ben’s neck, pulling him forward and slightly down; his other hand slides down his chest to his hip. He waits until Ben remembers to reciprocate—mind blank with shock—before licking and nipping at his mouth, encouraging, enthusiastic. Rumbles, pleased, in the back of his throat when Ben opens up for him, and again when he strokes the length of his back, hands coming to rest at the small of it, bring them flush together. Ben’s scarcely aware of the sounds  _he’s_  making, although he can feel them, needy and astonished and grateful, vibrating between them.

“Right,” Hux breathes when they part. “I’m going to have a bath in that absurdly enormous tub. Care to join me?”

 

* * *

 

Water and steam pour from the taps, the latter clouding the room; Hux is leaning over, adding a generous measure of something gently herbal-smelling to the water. Bubbles foam across the surface immediately and perfume the air. It’s enticing, but the tub is still only about a third full. Could take quite some time to fill at this rate.

But Ben is much more preoccupied with the armful of insistent Resistance spy who’s now pressing him against the wall, mouth on his, one hand in his hair, the other on his chest. He jolts when Hux squeezes his pectoral— _hard_ —through his shirt. 

“Sorry,” he says, although he doesn’t sound it. Is laughing, warmly, against Ben’s lips. “But I’ve wanted to do that all week.”

“Yeah?” he asks. He’s more or less regained his ability to speak, although it was a near thing, amazement and desire and fear slowing him to a stammer for the past several minutes.

“Darling, I don’t think you know how good you looked in those robes earlier,” Hux murmurs. Slides both hands down, reaching for his buttons. Pauses. “Is this okay?” His face goes serious for a moment, almost stern, so like his usual expression, and it’s clear that this is simply another side of him, still precise and particular and _Hux_ , only also with his mouth swollen from kissing Ben, his pupils fat with want.

“It’s—more than,” he breathes. Heart still hammering over the word _darling_ , offered sincerely. He leans in to kiss him again, fast, teeth clacking, a little sloppy, while Hux opens his shirt and slips one hand inside, stroking his abdominals, his chest. The rough pad of his thumb catches one nipple, and Ben groans, leaning into it.

“Sensitive, hm?” he asks. Like he’s making note of some key piece of intelligence. “Good to know.”  

Ben loses the thread somewhat then in the heady feeling of being touched, of _Hux_ touching him, kissing him, and methodically sucking what will no doubt be an impressive bruise into the side of his neck. Revels, too, in the feeling of him under his hands, the deepening flush of his skin in the humid room, the string of endearments and praise that tumbles freely out of him, uninhibited—unexpected—until Ben is shaking from it. _You feel so good, do you know that? And you taste incredible, pet. That’s right, right there, aren’t you clever._

He stifles a whine when Hux finally pulls away.

“The tub’s full,” he explains. Going over to shut off the taps. He lingers for a moment, studying Ben, before he steps out of his pants. Long, pale legs, dusted with golden hair, freckles. The soft swell of his ass. His cock, pink and shapely and half-hard already. He clears his throat. “Well?” he asks, amused.

Ben trips out of the rest of his own clothing. Forgets to be self-conscious as he follows him into the water, the right side of too hot. Sighs at the way his muscles relax, everywhere he’s been holding tension for days letting go all at once.

“Needed that, did you?” Hux moves over to him, letting his hands fall on Ben’s back, rubbing gently. The tub is big enough for both of them and then some, and deep enough that they’re almost treading water. “Knew you weren’t fine. You might have told me.” _I know you, Ben Solo, don’t forget that,_ his tone says.

And it might be better to confess, now, why it had been difficult, how’s he felt, for how long. Whatever that might mean for what’s happening here. “Hux, I—“

“Hush, it’s all right.” He digs in with both thumbs, chasing away the last bit of tightness, and Ben lets out a small moan. Another when Hux moves closer behind him, arms coming to wrap around him, chin resting on his shoulder. “What would you like?” he asks, low in his ear.

“Just—this,” Ben says. “You touching me.”

“Oh? You mean here?” Hux caresses the side of his face, tracing his lips. Laughs when he kisses the tips of his fingers. Presses them back in response.

“Yes.”

“And here?” He squeezes Ben’s chest again.

“Yes,” he breathes.

“And here?” His hand skims across his belly, then lower, taking hold of his cock and stroking it.

“ _Fuck_. Yes, please.” Ben arches back against him. The water sloshes around them; the sound of it and their breathing—rasping, heavy—echoes against tile and stone. He’s less cognizant of that than he is of the small noises Hux is making in his ear, pleased, while he touches him, one hand toying with his nipples, one and then the other until they’re both aching. The other is firm on his cock, moving slickly over it. He’s rocking against him now, too, erection slipping against the cleft of his ass, Hux finding purchase as he kisses down Ben’s neck, as he touches him, as he growls encouragement into wet skin.

“There you go, yes,” he’s saying. Accent soft, slurred, the way it never is. “There. _Fuck_. Oh, come for me, won’t you, love?”

And if _darling_ almost undid him, _love_ does completely, Ben quaking under his hands as he comes. He recovers enough to feel Hux finish behind him, shivering through it, his face pressed to Ben’s nape. “Hells,” he whispers. Sounding ragged, overcome himself.

Ben turns in his grip, finding it’s been entirely too long since he kissed him. Still amazed, stunned at how Hux wraps around him in response, arms clasped around his neck, legs winding around his waist, pulling him as close as he can, like he’s been waiting for this for years, too, impossible though that is. And Ben is, he decides, grateful for whatever he’ll give him. Even if it is just a post-mission dalliance, even it is just tonight, even if it is just this, long humid kisses and wet embraces in this stupidly large bathtub.

“I’d like to take you to bed, after this,” Hux tells him when they come up for air. His hair straggles dark over his forehead, his ears, and his cheeks are very pink, but he still manages to look and sound rather solemn, even grave, which makes Ben want to kiss him more. “What do you think?”

Ben nods jerkily. Not trusting his voice.

“Is that a yes?” He cradles his face. Brings their lips together gently, almost chastely. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

Ben wakes from deep, dreamless sleep, feeling more rested, more peaceful than he has in years. The memories of the night’s exertions are worn deep into his muscles—the slight twinges in his back, his thighs, his ass—all soothed to some degree, he recalls, by a second soak in the tub very early this morning. Although, that, too, had devolved into one last languid fuck, water splashing onto the floor as Hux thrust into him.

He’s sprawled near Ben on the bed now, fully dressed except for his boots, and typing rapidly on his datapad. “Good morning,” he says, his attention still on the screen. “You slept well, I trust?”

And he hadn’t imagined it, then, that affectionate tone from the night before. An unspoken _darling_ buried in the question.

“Very.” Ben yawns. Sees that their bags are packed and by the door. _Typical Hux._ “What are you doing?”

“Writing a proposal for the Senator,” he explains. “This all has given me an idea. Self-care protocols for operatives.”

“You think we need more spa days?”

Hux doesn’t quite smile, doesn’t quite grimace. “Something like that. Nowhere like here, of course, but something. I think it would be—useful. Give us more endurance for the fight ahead.”

“Mm, or you just want more massages,” Ben teases. “Got a taste for it now?”

“Maybe.” He chuckles, then shuts off his datapad and puts it to the side. It’s a moment before he looks over at Ben, eyes dark. Reaches out to stroke his cheek, brushes his thumb over his lips. “Maybe I was wondering if you would help with that.”

The air goes out of his lungs, shock and hope and dread hitting him all at once. _He wants—?_  What _does_ he want? Something casual, no doubt _._ He’s never seen Hux pursue a relationship, not in all the years they’ve known each other, not since Ben was a gawky padawan and Hux was newly arrived from the Unknown Regions. The Resistance is like that, though; none of them has time for anything permanent. But the idea of a fling makes his chest tight. He swallows. “Look, we should probably talk about last night,” he says. “Before we go home.”

It’ll make for an awkward trip, but he can lick his wounds at the cantina with Poe when they get there. And he shouldn’t postpone this, much as he wants to.

“Oh.” Hux’s hand drops; his expression shutters, his usual cool professionalism slipping into place before he turns away. “Oh, I see,” he says. “Well, that’s fine, then. I hope you don’t regret—“

 _Regret?_ “Wait, no,” Ben says. Grabbing for his hand, stopping him. “That isn’t—I didn't. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He frowns. Studies him. “What did you mean?”

He takes a steadying breath. _It was nice while it lasted._ “I meant, I should tell you, uh. This wasn’t—that is, it wasn’t casual for me. What happened. I.” His face heats. “I have. Well. _Feelings_. For you.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“And I know you don’t feel the same way, so it’s might be best if—wait. _You’re aware?_ ” Ben yelps.

“Well, yes.” Hux’s gaze skirts his, before flicking back, and he smiles, hesitant. “I know I can’t read minds, but you’re hardly subtle, Ben Solo.”

And maybe there’s a mission on Tatooine or Jakku. Somewhere remote. Long-term. Maybe he can be a hermit, like his namesake.

“The trouble is,” Hux continues, shaking him out of his horror. Decidedly avoiding eye contact now, not at all like him. “I rather have feelings for you, too. Have had.”

 _Wake up, Ben_. Although he _is_ awake, he knows. Knows it from the morning air of the room, chill where they left the balcony doors open, from the soreness when he shifts, from the solidity of Hux’s hand under his.

“But you—never—“

He picks at the coverlet. “I wasn’t certain, you understand, whether you still felt the same way. It could have been a momentary infatuation. And even if it wasn’t—you’re the Senator’s son. And a bloody Jedi besides.” He makes a face. “If it went poorly, if it was my fault, or I hurt you, well. I wouldn’t blame them, of course, but I doubt there'd be a place for me after that.”

Ben shakes his head, seeing the peculiar logic of it, but dismissing it. “You’ve done so much for the cause. You can’t think anyone would push you out. Kriff, Mom would get rid of me before you. Less paperwork.”

“Be that as it may,” Hux allows. “The Resistance is my home now. I haven’t got anything else.”

“You’ve got me,” he says immediately. Winces until he catches the look on his face.

 _Touched_.

Oh.

“So is that why you’re always—?” And there’s not a kind way to put it…

He laughs. “Such an uptight bastard? No, that’s permanent, I’m afraid, no matter how much we— I hope you don’t mind.”

Ben curls his fingers around his. Caresses the delicate skin of his inner wrist. “I don’t.”

Hux lets out a breath, his shoulders easing, and he shakes his head. “This week has been torture, you know. Sleeping next to you. Seeing you half-naked.  _Pretending to be kriffing married_. Thank you for that, by the way. After yesterday, I couldn’t stand it anymore. Hells.”

“You’re telling me,” Ben says before he kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ([tumblr](https://callmelyss.tumblr.com))


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